Friday, June 30

"Put Your Shoes On, We're At Grandma's."

CDP Headquarters.
(Me and the Missus crunch some numbers at CDP Headquarters.)

Yeah, I've got nothing today.

Because of this, I'm opening up the comment section to anything you want to talk about. 4th of July plans? Vacations? Stuffing corpses in your crawl space? Sound off, and I'll be back with new stuff next week. If you're feeling so inclined, come up with a good caption for this photo.


Thursday, June 29

Tin Roof Rusted.

I'm working on a lot of things right now, including the heavily-anticipated Post #400 (which will arrive in a couple weeks). To tide you over in the meantime, here are the last 20 Wikipedia articles I've read in my never-ending quest to become the most brilliantest man in the world. I try to take in about 50 new articles a week, concerning anything and everything interesting that I may or may not know about. Check out a few of them for yourself; you might learn something:

Yoko Ono
Simpsons Neologisms
Waverly Hills Sanatorium
Asperger Syndrome
Thomas Pynchon
Salman Rushdie
J.D. Salinger
The Shaggs
Azaria Chamberlain Disappearance
Passive Aggressive
Taos Hum
Ball Lightning
Warren Buffett
Philip Taylor Kramer
Beatles Butcher Cover
The Misfits
Spontaneous Human Combustion
Francis Bacon

What are you Wiki-ing? Sound off in the comments section and let us know.

I had a dream the other night that I was walking alone through a crowded mall. The overhead speakers were blasting the song "Love Shack" by The B-52's, and everyone was dancing and singing to beat the band. Everywhere I looked, customers and patrons were shaking their asses while pushing strollers, sucking down Orange Julius' and carrying armloads of bags. It appeared as if they were all having a great time.

Just then, a young man pushing a stroller whizzed past me. He was a white-gangsta' wannabe, wearing impossibly baggy clothing, rocking a sideways baseball cap and sporting a huge medallion. He was also singing loudly and moving to "Love Shack," all while violently wrenching around the stroller, which was carrying a newborn baby.

I was concerned for the infant, so I confronted the man. "Dude, be careful!" I said. "You've got a baby in there!"

The man stopped his song and dance, looked up and grabbed me by the collar. I could tell he was pretty angry as he pushed me up against the window of a Barnes & Noble.

Looking right into my eyes with all the seriousness and emotion in the world, he said:

"She's sixteen years old."

He then jerked my collar free and let me go. I woke up seconds later.

I've chosen to have myself voluntarily committed. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Tuesday, June 27

Give Me Some Skin.

Give me some skin.

To me, the start of summer only means one thing: 90 straight days of mind-blowing sunburns.

As an embarrassingly pale man, getting a sunburn is about as easy as beating Shaq in a game of 'Horse.' I needn't be outside for more than a picosecond to instantly transform my baby-smooth exterior into a mass of pink, stingy nerve endings. From June 3, right up until September 10, I'm rendered freakish and unpleasant in the eyes of friends and neighbors; invitations to parties cease and desist. Nobody wants to see Old Creepy McBurnyface singing karaoke; it tends to bring down a room.

The term 'tan' is not in my vocabulary. This word means nothing to me; sort of like 'zork' and 'scalene.' Unless I liberally lubricate my pores with SPF-Nuclear Holocaust lotion, I'm screwed.

A few years ago, me and the Missus went to an outdoor concert. I asked her to put lotion on my face, making sure she knew how susceptible I was to UV rays. She did not take this warning seriously, and carelessly streaked a few drops of lube across my melon. When the show was over, it looked as if I wanted to highlight certain parts of my forehead that were more important than the others.

And now, an awful story from my childhood.

In the late 80's to early 90's, I helped out on my family's dairy farm during the summer. One summer weekend in particular left me with the Queen Mother of all sunburns on my legs. I had been wearing shorts, and the result left me looking like I was wearing a permanent pair of red socks. from the knees to the ankles, I was charred beyond recognition.

I took care of my crimson legs for days on end, gently soaking and aloe-izing them before I went to bed each night. Even at such a young age, I was an expert at the art of third-degree burn treatment. I had experienced many a sunburn by that point in my life, but I knew that this one was different- even special, somehow. I didn't realize why I felt that way until the big day finally came.

I woke up on a humid Sunday morning and swung my wok-fried stumps over the edge of the bed. That's when I noticed the beginnings of a peel on each of my calves. Wide-eyed, with a skilled and steady hand, I proceeded to peel off my skin like an honest-to-goodness sock, producing two snake-like sheddings, each about a foot long. It took me about a half-hour, and they were absolutely beautiful. I held these giant hunks of flesh up for inspection, and everything suddenly became well worth the wait.

I couldn't let these go to waste. I had to do something with them. But what?

My attention focused to the small, black-and-white television I had in my room. The reception from this TV was horrible, and no matter which way I manipulated the rabbit ears, I got nothing but static and white noise. However, I did notice that the picture came in much better as long as I kept my hands on the antennas.

Scientifically speaking, I now know that the reason for this is because we humans give off a certain amount of electricity, which acts as kind of a booster for the TV antenna. As a child, all I knew was that I couldn't hold onto the antenna and watch the tube at the same time. Perhaps I could fake the TV out somehow, by making it think I was holding onto the rabbit ears.

I think you know where I'm going with this.

Imagine the look on my Mom's face when she walked into my room, only to see me watching a television with two giant balls of human skin affixed to the antennas.

Monday, June 26

I Want A Suburban Home.

Old and busted.
Old and Busted - Current location of CDP Headquarters.

New hotness.
New Hotness - Future location of CDP Headquarters.

We're moving, you see. The date is September 1.

Location-wise, this place is less than a block away from our old one, which allows us to stay in our retirement community neighborhood and remain the youngest couple on the grid. I like that.

The decision to move was an absolute no-brainer. I'm not going to ramble on about the upgrades and whatnot, just assume that everything in the new place is probably bigger and better than everything in the old place. The damage? Less than $50 a month more than our old loft. Scandal!

And get this, full basement. I'm already shopping around for pool tables and tiki bars.

The place used to be inhabited by a retired widow who decided to up and move to a smaller place in her old age. She took amazing care of it; although we'll have to spend hundreds to remove the 'old lady' smell from the carpeting. These particular locations seldom open up, so we jumped on the first chance to rent something that at least vaguely resembled an actual house.

We have a yard! A yard that I don't have to mow!

New hotness.

This will be the view from my kitchen window. I've never had a kitchen window before.

Me and the Missus have a lot of work to do up until that point. We've already hired movers to haul over our bigger items, and we're taking a week off of work to properly settle in thereafter. We're shopping for a new bed, and are looking into creative ways to make the basement rock properly. I can assure you that once we're all set up, I'll throw the mother of all housewaming parties, and you won't even have to bring gifts.

Until then, I'll be watching The Burbs and carefully packing boxes.

New hotness.

What do you have to say about it? Sound off in the comments section, and enjoy your Monday.